


warmth

by flootzavut



Series: after [2]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Ambiguous Relationship, Angst, Blanket Permission, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s05e24 Empok Nor, Fluffy Ending, Friendship, M/M, Post-Episode: s05e24 Empok Nor, Queer Themes, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21784126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flootzavut/pseuds/flootzavut
Summary: Recovery takes longer than Garak would like.
Relationships: Julian Bashir & Elim Garak, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Series: after [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1569898
Comments: 18
Kudos: 83





	warmth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrairieDawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrairieDawn/gifts), [Bluemeany](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluemeany/gifts), [brevityis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevityis/gifts).



> Happy Alternate Birthday, Prairie! ♥️🥳♥️🥳♥️
> 
> Many thanks to bluemeany, who gave me encouragement, some invaluable feedback, and one entire sentence of perfection; I don't know that I was entirely successful following your advice, but insofar as I was it made this a stronger story 😄
> 
> And thanks always to Brev for screeching with me 🥰

* * *

_**warmth** _

* * *

_the quality or state of being warm; moderate or gentle heat._   
_liveliness of feelings, emotions, or sympathies; ardour or fervour; enthusiasm or zeal._   
_the quality of being intimate and attached._

Recovery takes longer than Garak would like.

Not recovery from the drug - he's a hardy creature, and Julian is a good doctor. Recovery from the memories, from the- the _shame_ of it.

The part of him who is most his father's son is troubled, even angered, by that, thinks he should not be ashamed, that it's a ridiculous weakness. But that part does not have the same hold over him it once did. It was tempered by age and experience, then further tempered by exposure to Bajorans and Humans and even Ferengi; most particularly by long association with the optimists and fools who make up Starfleet.

(One optimist and fool in particular is most to blame for his transformation into someone who could be mistaken, in the right light, for a decent fellow. There are two voices in his head, guiding and rebuking him: one indubitably belongs to Enabran Tain; of late, the other sounds more and more like Julian Subatoi Bashir.)

He would have preferred to stay plain and simple Garak the tailor in the eyes of those around him. It's one thing to antagonise people, he enjoys that a good deal, but there's a chasm between being seen as an irritant and being seen as an assassin - no, worse, as a murderer, a monster, someone who enjoyed the hunt and the kill for its own sake. The ugliest parts of him writ large, where anyone might see; most unpleasant.

The remorse might be worse still. He would much rather not think about Amaro at all, but an entirely unfamiliar degree of guilt keeps waylaying him unexpectedly. _You're getting soft, old man_. Starfleet keeps rubbing off on him, undoing Tain's careful training, forcing him to pay attention to his conscience, to be truthful with himself. It's all dreadfully inconvenient.

The doctor has obviously been working in his defence. O'Brien would never have been so quick to reassure him about the inquest, the senior staff he's encountered would not have been so solicitous, so very concerned for his wellbeing, had not Doctor Bashir informed them of his - well, innocence is going too far, but...

It would be imprudent to assume motives beyond a doctor's concern for his patient, and Garak is nothing if not cautious; still, Julian has ensured he won't be so readily hated and reviled, won't be condemned the way he would have been if no one had thought to explain. He is terribly grateful. It's pathetic.

He cannot hide forever, and moreover he doesn't want to. He's no coward. _Never bring disgrace to Cardassia_. After a few days of licking his wounds in private, today he will square his shoulders and lift his chin high. He locks up the shop, and heads not home to hide, but out onto the Promenade to face whatever comes.

Or whatever does not.

Some of the faces he sees are unconcerned, hardly seeming to notice his emergence from self-imposed isolation; others look at him with a fear he might have relished had it been based on hearsay and innuendo.

Not one of them truly concerns him, however, not today. There's only one person whose reaction is weighing on his mind, someone who's already forgiven him so often, whether it was warranted or not; how humiliating, to seek out a Federation bleeding heart for absolution yet again.

He tells himself all the way to the Replimat that he isn't expecting to see Julian, that there are any number of reasons Julian might not be there that have nothing to do with him, and besides, he doesn't care, so the sharpness of his disappointment to find their table unoccupied is quite nonsensical. How utterly infuriating. He makes his way to the replicator, and without questioning why, orders Tarkalean tea and plomeek soup with basil, then sits and stares, picking at the meal without tasting it, distracted and disconsolate.

However he rationalises it, there must be limits to even the good doctor's forgiveness; it's likely the question has already been answered.

Ah, the danger of hope, even hope he tried to stifle. An ill-advised risk he should never have taken; it has only made him miserable. Much wiser to assume the worst than to be disappointed so. His lunch dates with Julian are not quite the only pleasure he has left on the station nowadays, but the prospect of losing this particular pleasure is bleak, even if it's no less than he deserves.

He's ready to give up on his meal when suddenly he becomes convinced he's being watched. He tenses. Is there someone behind him? No one has spoken, or touched him, but there's a frisson in the scales on the back of his neck. He holds his breath.

"Good afternoon, Garak. May I join you?"

Julian's voice was never more welcome, though Garak feels oddly exposed. He bites his tongue on the sigh of relief that wants to escape. _Steady now_. "Why of course, dear doctor." Almost casual. Good. Does Julian hear the tremor? "You should know by now that I always welcome interesting company." He certainly can't disguise how the tension has drained from his body even more quickly than it arrived.

He's startled by the warmth of a hand on his shoulder for a moment, so brief and surprising that he doesn't get a chance to react before Julian slips into the chair next to him. His skin tingles from the contact, he's dizzy with it, with what it signifies, acceptance and even friendship, not obliterated by recent events. Julian's knee bumps against his under the table, and it's... thrilling; he's practically giddy. Maybe he hasn't lost Julian after all. _You are a fool, Elim Garak. You always were_.

Meeting Julian's eyes is harder than it should be, but at least when he does, he finds it well worth the effort. Julian's expression is guarded, even nervous, but his eyes are warm and concerned, and he smiles tentatively.

"How are you feeling?"

It's almost the same question he asked in the infirmary, and yet it's completely different. Not the routine query of a doctor to his patient, but the concern of a friend.

Garak tilts his head. "I am... far better than the last time we spoke," he allows. "I dare say that, given time, I shall be entirely myself once again."

"Good." Julian's face softens with relief and something Garak is tempted to call affection. "I've missed you at lunch," he adds.

Such earnest sincerity, so beguilingly charming, and so difficult to resist. Has Julian been coming to the Replimat each day, hoping to see him? It's a ridiculously optimistic notion, but it's hard to come up with a more plausible interpretation, and hard not to hope despite himself. Garak dabs at his mouth with his napkin, then tells a half-truth. "I haven't felt much like being sociable this week."

Julian's eyes soften still more, full of compassion and understanding, but after studying Garak's face with an intensity that's slightly discomfiting, he simply nods. "Back in a minute," he says as he gets to his feet again, then heads for the replicator.

Ah, so Julian is not going to inquire further today; an unforgivable failure to capitalise on weakness. Garak's mentors would not have tolerated such a lapse, and he smiles. He's so glad Julian is not the spy he plays at being in the holosuites. Garak may never get used to a friend who's almost unfailingly kind.

His appetite has returned a little, although his food is not improved by having grown cold. The soup was always a poor choice, he pushes the bowl away without regret, but warm tea would be very pleasant; unfortunately, he's quite certain he's left it too long.

He takes a hesitant sip and pulls a face, then looks up in confusion when a fresh, steaming cup of his favourite red-leaf blend is unexpectedly placed in front of him.

"You looked... chilly," Julian says as he sits down, a little bashful, but smiling fondly when Garak wraps his hands around the mug.

Garak flatters himself that he's a hard man to surprise, but Julian Bashir seems bound and determined to ruin his record. "Thank you, doctor."

"You're welcome. Plomeek soup?" Julian asks, eyebrows raised and smile turning mischievous.

Garak glances down at his uncharacteristic and far too revealing meal. _For shame. Not just a fool, Elim, but an obvious one_. "Yes; I thought it might grow on me," he says, brazening it out, "but I'm afraid I find it as bland and unappetising as ever."

Julian smiles still more widely but doesn't push further, and Garak is absurdly grateful for his restraint.

It starts an amicable argument, and Garak settles in to enjoy the familiar, affectionate bickering, to watch Julian grow more animated, to see his face light up with the joy of debate.

He's quite absurd, this Human, in a way Garak was never able to resist, and has long since stopped wanting to. Everything about him is warm and soft and inviting; it makes Garak want to move in closer, to savour the heat of him. Desire is not unusual - from the very beginning Garak _wanted_ \- but this, this isn't even sexual. It's the urge to curl up on a sun-baked rock and let its heat seep into his bones, utterly relaxed and content. It takes all his willpower not to reach out and touch, not to take Julian's hand or squeeze his shoulder or cup his cheek, but Garak doesn't trust himself to stop once he starts. Even if Julian would allow it, there's a time and a place, and the Replimat during lunch is neither.

Still, even at a polite distance suitable for a public venue, it's a comfort, balm to Garak's spirit. He almost wishes he believed in God or gods, or even in Bajor's confounded Prophets, as long as it meant he had someone to thank for the continued miracle of this friendship.

Enabran Tain would be disgusted and disappointed by such ingenuous sentimentality. Garak finds that, basking in the warmth of Julian's regard, he can't possibly bring himself to care.

_~ fin ~_


End file.
